


Speak / Listen

by Revidescent



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Character study probably, Gen, I have a lot of feelings about Dean's feelings, Kayfabe Compliant, Mental Health Stuff, ambreigns brotp, moxley/ambrose continuity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8742730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revidescent/pseuds/Revidescent
Summary: Dean has a complicated relationship with the man he used to be.  (Eight conversations, eight moments in time.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the closest to kayfabe compliant I could get while awkwardly stapling Mox and Dean together into one coherent character, incorporating bits of info from shoot interviews filtered through an in-character lens. For this fic's purposes - Jon Moxley was a real guy. Dean Ambrose is the man he became.

_November 2012_

 

“Your problem,” Dean says, so far into Roman’s space that their noses nearly touch, “is that you wanna play bloodthirsty but you’ve never been _thirsty_  for _blood_.”  He punctuates each word with a sharp finger jab against Roman’s sternum.  It’s always funny watching the gears turn as Roman tries to puzzle out what reaction Dean’s trying for, specifically so he can do the opposite.  Seth’s a solid presence to their right, tense and alert, but making no effort to separate the pair of them.  Roman finally takes a step back, and another, and studies Dean with infuriating composure.

“It’s not… Ambrose, it’s not _literal-"_ “That’s your fucking problem, man!”  He moves to close the gap again, but there’s Seth’s hand firm against his chest, and, well, he wants Seth on his side for this one.  “The crowd’ll eat up your whole roaring wildman shtick, but nobody who matters is gonna buy it for a _second_.  You’ve never _once_ walked into a ring not sure if you and the other guy are both gonna leave breathing.  C’mon.  If there was a guy standing between you and a title, and you knew you had the shot that’d take him out but it’d break his nose, would you do it?  Break his arm?  Break his neck?  Would you put your best goddamn chance at greatness over his career?"Roman’s eyes crinkle into something that looks sickeningly like concern.  “You really think like that?  It’s just a sport, bro.  This ain’t the Colosseum."Just.   _Just_.  It burns wild in Dean’s gut that this can be _just_  anything to anyone.  Roman and Seth are both so steady, too steady if you ask him, because this thing they’re becoming needs to be a thunderous bolt of chaos if it’s going to be anything.  What if this was all a mistake?  He’s trying, he’s trying so goddamn hard to be something different for once, and they’re not helping.  Not fucking helping at all.“Look, man,” he says, and tries to make it sound like the concession he knows it isn’t.  “The three of us, we’re gonna be monsters, we’re gonna run this whole show, I know it.  I’ve got your back, and I’m trusting you’ve got mine, and I don’t do that easy.  But one day, sooner or later, it’s gonna be you and me across the ring again, and you’re gonna wish you’d learned the difference before I had to teach you.”  He turns to Seth, and it may be the first time Dean’s seen him this visibly uncomfortable.  “Come on, back me up on this.  I know you’ve been there."Seth shrugs, and scratches uneasily at his beard.  “Sorry, Dean.  Can’t say I have.”  When Dean growls with frustration, he adds, “Don’t get me wrong, I know what it’s like to really put it all on the line, I just… like he says.  In the end, it’s not life or death, it’s wrestling."(Two years later, jaw pressed hard to concrete as Seth’s boot comes down on his head, all he can think is _I knew you were lying._ )

 

* * *

_June 2014_ He won’t call what he did “hiding”, but the fact is that it’s nearly 2 AM and he’s just now heading to the car, still in no shape to drive it.  The only sounds in the parking garage are the slap of his sneakers on asphalt, the keys he can’t stop jingling in his pocket, and his breath, still too deep and ragged.  There’re a handful of vehicles aside from his own rental, crew still deconstructing arena, a few stragglers, but if he’s lucky - and after tonight, the universe owes him this one, just this - there’ll be no more talk ’til he’s asking the bartender for a tall glass of the strongest shit in the house.

 

He’s no stranger to pain, not even to the kind that comes from the liberal application of steel to flesh, but this is something else.  A saw to the forehead a dozen times over would hurt less than the look he saw on Seth’s face out there.  Dean dodged the trainer - to hell with it, he handled his own wounds for a lifetime before this, and he could do it again - and found a dark corner to skulk in, seething, aching, ruined.  The fans would have opinions, the locker room would have sympathy or questions or jeers, and Dean has rage and rage and rage, a fierce and furious desire to turn his pain into action and his action into pain.

He wants to punch the concrete pillar in front of him, over and over until his arm’s a mutilated lump of meat, and it’s taking every considerable ounce of willpower to keep from doing it.  He can picture it, the splintering, bones through skin, _radius, ulna, phalanges, metacarpals,_ all jagged spines and he’d drag himself to Seth like that and make him _look,_ make himself a totem of this fractured alliance, as broken on the outside as he is everywhere else.But they don’t let guys with shattered limbs into the ring, and that’s where the real revenge is, not cornering that traitorous shitstain in a back alley and pounding his teeth loose from lying mouth.  That’d be nice, that’d feel real good, but it’s not the gloriously public reckoning Seth’s got coming to him.  It’s all the better to make the world watch, the Authority and everybody else, and let them know what happens to people who fuck with Jon Moxley-Rather, with Dean Ambrose-It’s too loud in his head.“How’re you holding up?"His nerves are so raw that the shock of a sudden voice knocks the wind out of him as hard as any blow, and he whirls, heart pounding loud enough to hear two states over.  It’s too much at once - was he really so far gone that somebody could sneak up on him?  And how, why, did _Roman_ find him here?“Jesus _fuck,_  where did you come from?” Dean pants out, “What’re you _doing_?"“Looking for you,” says Roman, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but at least he has the decency to look a little startled himself.  “Couldn’t find you anywhere after the trainer cut me loose, but the car was still here, so I assumed… I’ve, uh, been doing laps of the parking garage.  I had to keep moving."“That’s…that’s gotta be the dumbest thing I ever heard.  It’s the middle of the goddamn night and you’ve got better things to worry about than stalking my sorry ass."“We drove in together,” Roman reminds him, as though it changes anything.  “Seth probably left in a fuckin’ limo or something, but.  That’s both our rides right there.”“Taxis.  Remember taxis?  Taxis are a thing.”“It’s sounding an awful lot like you’re tryin’ to avoid me, man."“No, I just spent the last few hours where no one was gonna find me and I came out here, alone, in the middle of the night because I was _looking for a conversation_.  Go home, asshole, we got nothin’ to talk about."Roman’s face scrunches up, because of _course_ , of all the emotions he could have picked right now, he chooses to be _annoyed_.  “That’s the line you’re takin’ here?  I do something to piss you off, Dean?  Because from where I’m standing, I’m not the guy you need to be mad at right now."Blood and bones.  He still wants everything to shatter, and he could do it here, right now, see the look on Roman’s face after _that._ Watch his mouth go slack, eyes go wide, give him a flaring red reminder of just who he’s talking to.  Roman Reigns doesn’t want to tear himself apart at the seams out of pure spite, or kick dents into the car, break the windows with his fists.  Roman Reigns has been jogging circuits around a parking garage, probably doing breathing exercises and planning his untethered future.  Roman Reigns needs a harsh dose of reality and Dean hopes, even prays, that Roman can see the unvarnished truth in the whites of Dean’s eyes and the set of his jaw, as the space fills with the sounds of his own ragged breathing and it all boils over.

 

“What do you _want_?  What d’you even think is _left_ here?   _What am I to you?_ "

 

Roman winces like he’s been slapped, and he stammers at his answer.  “Dean, he went after me first, he turned on  _both_ of us-"

 

“That’s not what I _asked_!”  He needs to hit something, _needs_ to, and lacking better options he spikes his duffel  down to the asphalt and stomps on it, one, two, three times.  Bares his teeth, and Roman is as steady as ever and Dean tries to bury the part of himself that wants to break the other man instead.  “The Shield is done, you get that?  We’re done.  You and me, we’re not The Shield, we’re not anything, we’re a pair of nobody chucklefuck assholes hung out to dry and you’re standing in the way of me going off to get so trashed I don’t remember my own name, let alone that spineless, cowardly, two-faced, _dickless-"_  


 

_“Dean!"_

 

If there’s another soul anywhere in the garage, they’ll have heard Roman, and Dean feels the roar of it echo in the empty space and resonate through every screaming nerve in his body.  Some days he envies people who can parcel out their emotions, because this is rage and panic and overwhelming grief all at once, or maybe it’s none of them, maybe it’s just the white-hot adrenaline _nothing_  left when all other systems fail.  Now, though, Dean’s not the only one with clenched teeth and balled fists.  There’s laughter, a low chuckle, and it’s not coming from Roman so it must be his.  “There it is,” he says, and dances closer to Roman, step by fluid step.  With each beat, his heart races a little bit less.  “There’s the crack.  I knew you had to be feelin’ something, under all that.  But you still ain’t answering what I asked."

“We’re family,” grinds out Roman.  “Seth hit you so hard you forget that?"“ _Bull_ shit,” says Dean.  “You’re not my blood and you’re not my brother.  The brotherhood’s dissolved, man, pay attention."  He snaps his fingers in Roman’s face; this close, he can see that this was never steadiness at all, but a volcanic tension roiling under the surface, a delayed eruption.“No,” says Roman, his voice soft and even and still somehow seething with every ounce of molten violence that Dean now sees within him.  “No, that’s not how this works.  He doesn’t get to take that.  Not after everything.  He can cut his ties, but that don’t mean we only got a bond when he’s here to hold it together."“We’d’ve torn each other apart months back if it weren’t for him.  We’re- we’re a combustable element, man, you and me both, and I’m ready and willing to show that fuckhead what he gets for pulling the pin, but I ain’t got the _energy_ left to burn with you.  It’s easier, right?  You don’t need me, and I sure as shit don’t need you.  Never needed anybody before the Shield, and look where tryin’ to change that left me.  Just fuckin’ go.  Sure your phone’s been ringin’ off the hook from your _real_  family, got plenty of those, bet they’re all real worried about you."“No,” says Roman again, and Dean hates the way he can feel Roman’s presence calming him.  The frenzy was easier, cleaner.  “You’re the best friend I’ve got left here- no, not just- you’re my best friend.  Dean, I-” Roman closes his eyes and exhales for a long time, and Dean can almost feel the heat of his anger scorch the air, and hell if Dean’s heart doesn’t break all over again.  They're prideful men, the both of them, but still he hears _I can't do this without you_ as clear as if it were spoken aloud.

 

He could end it here, properly, permanently.  Maybe plant Roman on the pavement now, when he least expects it, kick him in the head once or twice, make the point real clear.  Even just walking away, getting in the car, driving off without a word, would probably be enough.  Just get it over and done with.  It’s painful, to cauterize, but some wounds need closing off before they bleed you dry.

 

Or.  Or he could put aside what he thinks he needs, and just do the thing he wants.

 

What he wants is to make contact, to bridge this gap somehow, but his instincts are still caught somewhere between an embrace and a fist to the jaw.  He settles for tipping his forehead against Roman’s shoulder, a slight but oddly intimate point of contact, and fights the urge to jerk away when Roman rests one hand on the back of his neck.  It’s the lull in the eye of the hurricane as he stands, eyes closed, and breathes against his brother’s skin.

“This is my fault,” he murmurs, and hopes that Roman can’t hear the way his voice catches.  He’ll wear his fury plainly, but not that, never that.  “I shoulda known something was wrong.  You never would, it was all on me.”“Ain’t nobody’s fault but Seth’s.  Not us.  Just him."Dean pulls back, so he can look Roman in the eye as he shakes his head.  “You trust a snake and you get bit, that ain’t on the snake.  Snake’s just doing what it does.  It’s on you, for trusting."“Not if you don’t know a snake’s a snake."

 

“But I _should_  have.”  They’re passing out of the calm now, back into the roil.  He steps back far enough to kick his bag again, hard, booting it into the side of the car.  “ _I knew better_ , you get that?  I’m not the guy that gets fooled.  I see through to people, always have, and it taught me that trust is a sucker’s game.  A scumbag oughta know their own."

“You’re not-"“ _Don’t_ tell me what I am!  You don’t get to.  Don’t think that callin’ me ‘brother’ means you know me, man.”   _So tell him_ , says a voice inside him, a younger and more feral voice.  And - why not.

This time he can’t look Roman in the eye.  “I always thought it’d be me.” He stares down at his brutalized bag as he says,  “We weren’t gonna last forever; I knew there’d come a time when I’d hafta burn that bridge before somebody could shove me off it.  Wasn’t making plans or nothin', just… always figured.  Looks like I waited too long."

He glances up again, but Roman’s not looking back at him, either.  “I thought it’d be you, too,” he says finally, and maybe Dean should be offended, but instead it feels like a weight off his shoulders, somehow.  Not everything has gone off axis; the world’s still spinning as it should.“Good.” Dean stalks over and claps a hand on Roman’s shoulder in the hope that it’ll wipe that sickly look of guilt off his face.  "That means you got sense."

 

“I was wrong, though."

 

“So?  You coulda been right.  Doesn’t matter now, y’know what I mean?  Anyway.  Shit.”  He can feel the familiar ache of adrenaline burning low, and all of a sudden he’s nothing but tired.  “Only got like an hour ’til the bars close.  We gonna do this all night, or…?"

 

“Hey, look, if you really want me to back off, you got it, long as you get that you’re not in this alone.  Whatever you need to do to deal, man, just tell me what you want.”  

 

“What do I want? I want Seth’s head on a stick.  Not gonna get that, not tonight anyway, uh.  I wanna go get completely wasted, just totally fucked up, wanna be so hungover I got nothing left in me to care about anything or anyone else, I want…”  Dean sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and tells the truth.  “I want blood.  Have all night, ever since… and I’m not feelin’ picky about whose, mine or anybody’s.  Soon as I get a little buzzed I’m likely to pick a fight with the first guy who looks at me funny, and this is _really_  not the time for that, gettin’ the cops called on me would throw a wrench in all my grand plans for vengeance, so, y'know.”  He shrugs, and reaches down to grab his bag, now tattooed with dusty shoe prints.   “You wanna come with?  I could use a little outside impulse control.  Or, y'know, just company."

“Like you have to ask,” says Roman.  “But I can’t promise I’m not in the same mood."“You, go brawling outside the ring?  That I gotta see."

“Maybe you don’t know me so well, either.”  There’s a ghost of a smile on Roman’s face, a little forced, but the effort’s there.  “You an’ me, we could go.  Square up, here and now.  Work it all out of our systems."

 

Roman’s kidding, probably, but there’s still a part of Dean that wants to take him up on the offer.  It’s the part that crouches in the far and jagged corners of his mind, leering through a cloud of cigarette smoke, begging him to find out what his fists could do to a face like that.  “Nah,” he says instead.  “Another time, maybe, but I think we’ve had enough of that for one night.  Next time I make my brother bleed, it ain’t gonna be you.”  It’s not an apology, on the surface, but if anyone can see it for what it is, it’s Roman Reigns.  Dean grabs the car keys out of his pocket, clicks the unlock, and tosses them to Roman, who catches them easily in one hand.  “I call shotgun."

 

* * *

_March 2016_ “That felt good, didn’t it?  Fuck, I bet that felt so good.  That was better than TLC, man, you made Trips _bleed,_ I wanted in there with you, try out my new toy, but that was your moment, man, that was all you, always knew you had it in you, that was fucking _incredible-_ "Roman’s hands are gripping his knees white-knuckle tight.  “I hate him,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the locker room floor, and if that doesn’t take the wind out of Dean’s sails.His shoulders sag, and he leans Foley’s barbed wire bat gently against the bench before dropping down next to Roman.  “I’m sorry,” he says, resting a hand on his brother’s back.“I figured you’d be happy.  It’s what you’ve been tryin’ to get through to me all these years."

 

“Buddy, I’d have to be a pretty sick guy to be happy about a face like that.”  He pats Roman’s cheek a couple of times with his other hand, not gently, and it earns him a brief flash of a grin.

 

“But you do like it when I get angry."

“Hell yeah, I like it.  You’re a fuckin’ act of God, man.  You fight like a hurricane.  But I don’t like that you don’t like it, so, y’know.  I know what it’s like when your head ain’t right, and I wouldn’t wish that on you or anybody."

 

“S’not that,” mutters Roman.  “The opposite.  Things were clear for the first time in weeks.  Like comin’ out of the fog.  I could always… turn it off.  Even with Seth.  Now I’m just…” he shrugs listlessly.  “Blinded?  I let him get to me.  Like there was nothing but noise in my head ’til the moment I got my hands on him."

 

Now that sounds awfully familiar.  Something wells up deep in Dean’s chest, a wave of empathy that hits him so hard he feels dizzy.  He swallows.  “Know what that’s like,” he says, not even trying to hide the waver in his voice.

 

“You think I should stop?  Save it all up for Mania?"

“Look, man, you don’t need to know what I think.  I mean, you know what I want to say, and I know what I prob’ly should say, so I’m just gonna not say any of it.  You do what you need to do, okay?  Whatever it is you were hoping I was gonna tell you - that’s it.  Do that.  You already know.  I’ve got your back either way.  Even if you need to do this alone, I’ve still got it, just say the word."

 

Roman nods slowly, intent on looking in any direction but Dean’s.  “I think... I gotta do this alone.”

 

“Right, then,” and Dean can’t say he’s not disappointed, but he said what he said.  He stands to leave, bat in one hand, the other on Roman’s shoulder.

“…In the ring, at least.  Don’t need you out there.  But…”

And Dean sits back down.

He’s no good at comfort, giving or receiving, and so Dean surrounds himself with those who don’t need it and don’t offer it.  All he has is his presence, and that’s as barbed and dangerous as any weapon.  He rolls the bat’s handle back and forth between his palms and prays that Roman will be the one to break the silence.

He does, eventually: “I gotta come clean on something, and it might piss you off."“Yeah?"

“Watching your match for the championship… I was cheering you on, man, I was so pumped, you deserved it, but when that three count came down, for that second… I felt sick.  Pit just dropped outta my stomach.  Then it wasn’t…” Roman drops his head down into his hands.  “What kind of a shitty person… but I wanna hurt him, man, I wanna break him.  Take him out, middle of the ring.  It’s not just the belt anymore.  I want to make ‘im pay, with my own hands, and you takin’ the title would mean I don’t get to.” 

 

He can see Roman steeling for some sort of furious retaliation, but Dean feels none of that.  He knows what it’s like, when retribution blinds all sense.  He wonders whose voice Roman hears in his head at times like this, warning that there’s a time and place for anger.  His mother?  His father?  The old phantoms that bubble up inside Dean’s own mind usually just egg him on towards violence.

 

“It’s cool,” Dean says.  “I knew I was kinda fuckin’ up your plans when I went out there and challenged our so-called champion - what can I say, you were off with your surgery, and with Brock out of town I had to find some hornet’s nest to poke.  Figured I could keep ‘im on his toes ’til you got back, and if I got a title out of it, all the better.”  He’s not going to insult Roman by claiming he never wanted the belt in the first place, because of course he did, they both know it.  This isn’t the time for that conversation, though, he understands that much.  “Besides, even if I _was_  pissed, you never called me on the shit I pulled at Fastlane, so.  Even.”  He shrugs, as Roman’s brow knits uncertainly.

 

“What shit in particular?"

 

“Hit you with a chair, man.  That didn’t bother you?"

 

It’s Roman’s turn to shrug.  “Match was no DQ.  We both went into it willing to do whatever it took, you think I oughta be surprised?  You did your thing, I did mine, my thing ended up workin' out."

 

“Hey, if I’d brought out a table or whatever - if I’d had this then” - he motions to the bat, again propped up beside him - “then yeah, whatever, ain’t got no guilt about that, I use the tools I got.  Just… a chair, to the back.  I dunno, didn’t think about it at the time, but after that, ever since…”  

 

Roman inhales sharply, and leaves a long and heavy silence hanging in the air.  “I’ll be honest, man, never thought of it that way."

 

“…Oh.”  Of course he hadn’t.  Roman is a present man, a literal man.  Dean breathes metaphor.  Everything is something else.  Every moment is another moment.  Seth’s blow to his back is Seth’s boot to his head is his father’s fists is his mother’s cigarettes is the kids who held him down when he was 12, tried to kick his teeth in ‘cause he wouldn’t hand over his last 5 bucks-

 

To Roman, Seth’s chair was just chair.  Dean wonders what it’s like, to think like that.

“Hey,” he tries, desperate to talk about anything else, "Cincinnati tomorrow.  I’m goin’ home."“You miss it, don’t you?"Dean shrugs.  “Pisses me off that I do, but I do.  It’s a real tire fire of a city sometimes, but it’s the tire fire that made me the man I am today, so I guess I owe it somethin’.  Y’know what they say, what doesn’t kill you and all that shit.”

 

Roman chuckles.  “Guess that’s how you got so damn strong.  Whole lotta not dyin’.”

 

“It’s what I’m best at.”

 

“Countin’ on that when you go up against Lesnar.  You really think you can beat him?”

 

“I… maybe.  Probably not?  I gotta try.  Someone’s gotta try.”

 

“Hey, I’ve been there, you haven’t.  You-“

 

“I know!  I know.  Brock’s something else.  So you keep tellin’ me.  That ain’t the point.  The point is, every monster’s also just a guy.  Nobody knows that better’n me, and I wanna be the one who reminds him.  It’d be nice to win, but I’d settle for makin' him bleed.  Hell, I’d settle for makin’ him flinch.”

 

“And if you can’t?”

 

Dean inhales slowly, and exhales even slower.  “Then I’ll live.”  And he smiles, because hell, one of ‘em has to.  “I’ll live.”

 

“Yeah,” agrees Roman, finally meeting Dean’s eyes.  “You’ll live.” 

 

* * *

_September 2013_ “We weren’t really gonna do that, were we?”  Discomfort leaves Roman rolling his shoulders, clenching and unclenching his fists, in a way that reminds Dean of himself on any given day.  He stands tall, though, direct and laser-focused.  “I know we agreed we’d take this thing full on, but that was Dusty Rhodes, man.  He’s what, 70?"“I think commentary said 68,” says Dean absently, slouched against the concrete wall.  He’s been feeling a little to the left of himself since The Shield descended on the ring earlier that night, a pack of dogs responding to their masters’ call.  They were wolves once, weren’t they?  Here they are, tamed and civilized, brought in from the cold yet somehow made more vicious than their wild selves.The three of them have retreated to the bowels of the arena.  Their new setup, right under Triple H and his new regime, means they don’t have to skulk their way around anymore, but hey, old habits.  The hall is sparse and poorly lit, probably only meant for maintenance, and it feels more like home than anywhere Dean’s been in weeks.“Don’t tell me you’re getting squeamish, Reigns,” says Seth, and Dean snorts at that, the way he always reverts to last names at times like this.  It’s been nearly a year; they’re well past formality.“Fuck you, I didn’t sign up to assault the elderly.  If we’d actually gone at him with those chairs, we could’ve killed him.  Think that’ll look real good for our careers, _Rollins_?  Murdering a legend?  No, forget the business, you want that on your conscience?  You can live with that?"Seth shrugs.  “We were just there to put the pressure on Big Show, man."

“Big Show coulda killed him!  You really think Dusty was fit to take a knockout punch?  This is…”  Roman makes a low noise somewhere between a frustrated growl and an agonized moan, and rubs his eyes like he’s in physical pain.  He turns and storms off down the hallway, but turns back as soon as he reaches the end.  He’s only halfway back when he calls to Dean, “Hey, you’re lookin’ real relaxed about all this."

For a brief, insane second, he considers telling Roman the truth - that the whole experience has left him feeling floaty and strange, unpleasantly outside of himself.  That there was a split second where he was a muscle twitch away from taking the chair to Big Show - or hell, to Stephanie McMahon; he’d done worse back in the day.  That they're all talking around the real issue, because this wasn’t just any random geezer, but one who’d mentored them all on their way up in the business.  Someone whom each of them owed, and Dean most of all.The truth is too raw, but Dean feels too far away from his own mind to lie convincingly.  “Nah, you’re right,” he says, with a slow shake of his head.  “That was fucked up."“You too?  What happened to Mister Bloodthirsty, huh?” asks Seth.“He’s been tryin’ this new thing where he treats business like business, and there ain’t no justifying what happened out there as good business.  What happened to _you_?”  Dean can feel a grin creeping its way into his features, disconnected from any real emotion.  Roman’s gravitated over to Dean, settling against the wall to his right.  It’s never good when they split like this, but two-on-one arguments rarely find Seth on the solo side.  He’s normally the tiebreaker, the mediator, because Dean may have the market cornered on volatile, but he and Roman run neck in neck on stubborn.  Dean glances over, and Roman looks… grateful?  Something’s softened in that stormy face, but before he can put words to it, there’s Seth.  The smaller man stands before them and claps a hand down on to each of his teammates’ shoulders.“Guys, we’ve talked about this.  Everybody who gets in that ring knows what they’re signing up for; everybody knows there’s just as much fought outside the ropes as in ‘em.  I know you both respect the hell out of Rhodes, but treating him like he’s too fragile to play the same game as the rest of us doesn’t seem much like respect to me.  He’s been doing this longer than us three have been alive, you think he didn’t know the risks going out there tonight?  Please."Roman shrugs free of Seth’s hand.  “That’s your pep talk?  Laying a beating is just a show of respect?  I’m not doin’ it, so what if this happens again?  What’s our play?"

 

“We pull our punches,” says Dean. "Go light.  Hope he stays down.” Dean can’t help but wonder what road he turned on to that led him to this moment, trying _not_  to hurt somebody.

Seth nods.  “That’s fine.  That works.  And I don’t see any _if_ about it.  This isn't over, and we’ve got jobs to do, gentlemen.”   _Gentlemen._   Seth is ridiculous when he’s like this, and it used to make Dean cringe, but now it almost breaks its way through the haze, makes his smile real.  Almost.  “Are we good?"

Seth holds out his fist, and it feels so stupid, here, away from anyone who might see the statement made.  He holds his own fist beside Seth’s anyway, and with a long-suffering sigh, Roman adds his own a moment later, his other still clenching, unclenching, clenching, unclenching.

They need to get back; Roman's taking on Daniel Bryan for the main event.  It’s supposed to be a punishment, the only problem being Bryan’s meant to be the one getting punished.  One Jon Moxley learned well what it was like to get your ass handed to you by the American Dragon, and no amount of merciless confidence and pure, focused power can make up for how green Roman still is in the ring.  But hey, if it takes all three of them to play Goliath to Bryan's David, so be it, even if they topple in the end.Business is business.  Dean trails along beside himself, out of the corridor, into the light, and lets his face keep on smiling without him.

 

* * *

 

  
_January 2013_

“It’s funny,” says Seth, “how we didn't cross paths too much back in the indies.  I know we ran in some of the same circles.  I certainly heard plenty about you.”

 

“Yeah?  All bad things, I hope.”  There’s three of them crammed into a one-bed room, and though Dean tends to take the floor, he’s colonized the bed while Roman’s in the shower.  He’s sprawled backwards, butt to the headboard, legs crossed up against the wall.  He cranes his neck around to face Seth, perched on the edge of the cheap hotel armchair.

Seth chuckles.  “You could say that.  Man, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a paycheck and the chance to get in the ring-"“That I knew.”  Dean raises his eyebrows and grins a little too wide.  “Cyberfights.”

 

Seth recoils like he’s been threatened, one hand flying to his mouth.  “Fuck, you saw those?"

“A guy’s gotta know who he’s teaming with.”    
   
“Wouldn’t have killed you to focus on Ring of Honor, maybe,” mutters Seth.  “Anyhow, point is, as you _apparently know_ I’d go pretty far for a buck, but that real hardcore shit?  No way."“Yeah, softcore’s more your speed.”  And then, over Seth’s indignant sputtering, “Didn’t wanna mark up your pretty face, I get that.  I never had all that much to lose in that department.”  He waits a beat before adding, “I’m just messing with you, man.”   _Mostly._ “I’m not the weird one here,” insists Seth.  “You do know that, right?  Taking a sawblade to the head isn’t the kinda thing most people do for fun."

 

“Neither is taking a fist, a knee, a chair, or a _ladder_ to the head, but that ain’t stopped any of us.  I know for a fact you’ve spilled plenty blood on the mat.  Nothing about what we do is normal, and if you don’t see that, maybe you _are_ the weird one."

“I guess,” says Seth, but he doesn’t look convinced.

 

“And it _was_  fun.  I get bored easy, okay.  Thought you’d figured that out by now. Besides, d’you really think you can play all high and mighty with me?  I saw some of the shit you got up to when you were running with Jacobs.”  Dean chuckles.  “Your big debut, man, they didn’t even wanna put that in the show.  Stringin’ up Briscoe, while Jacobs gives a promo with the dude’s blood dripping down on him?  Never liked Jimmy much, but hell, the man knows drama."

 

“Jimmy called me a couple of times when you two had your thing.  He was kinda scared of you, you know that?  Not, like, in the ring, not more than any other guy, but I remember, he told me once - he said, if they found him dead in a gutter, tell the cops it was probably Moxley."

 

Dean stiffens at that, for a moment, but Seth seems too lost in his memories to notice.  He forces out a laugh.  “Yeah, well, that’s what we do, right?  It’s a mind game much as anything, strikin’ fear into the hearts of men.  Bet’cher glad to have me now, that weaselly voice of yours ain't nearly enough to make us look like a credible threat.  Can you imagine our little Blair Witch promos, just you and Reigns?  Be a mess without me."

 

“That really what you think?  Plenty of guys in that locker room're scared of The Shield.  I doubt too many are frightened of you in particular."

 

“What, haven’t you heard?  You’re the flippy guy, Reigns is the powerhouse, and I’m _eccentric_.  If that don’t mean scary, I don’t know what it means."

 

“I think it means we’re putting on a show for kids and they can’t say ‘I hear this guy used to take forks to the skull for a paycheck,’ maybe."

 

“Yeah, like Lawler and Cole have the first fuckin’ clue where I came from.  They don’t give a shit who we were before we came here.  Far as they know, we’re as fresh as Roman, and that’s fine by me.  Ain’t often you get a second first impression, and you gotta admit, we kinda nailed that one.”

 

“Even the turtlenecks?”

 

“Maybe not the turtlenecks.  I’d take a third first impression if it meant no turtlenecks.  But hey, the fact we got the whole roster running scared from some dudes who showed up in fuckin' turtlenecks is pretty great."

 

“Christ.  I’m just picturing you way back in some CZW match, screaming, carnage, blood everywhere, and-"  Seth waves a hand over his torso.  “Turtleneck.”

 

“This from a guy who called himself ‘God’ and wrestled in board shorts?”

 

Seth groans and slumps back into the chair.  “Man, who even tells you this shit?”

 

“Hey, I got my past, you got yours.  Personally I’d take picking glass shards outta my skin over having an emo phase, but that’s just me.”

 

“You’re a piece of shit, Ambrose.”  It’s odd, the way he says it.  It’s not affectionate by any means, but at the same time there’s an edge he’s used to in those words and it simply isn’t there.

 

He swings his legs down and around so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, face to face with Seth.  He grins a grin that he knows can make a grown man wilt, but Seth either knows him too well for that now, or happens to be real good at hiding it.  Dean stares him down anyway.  “You ever see my final showdown with Jacobs?  The I Quit match?”

 

Seth shakes his head.  “He won that, right?"

 

“Yeah.  It was real close, though.  I smuggled in some spikes in my boots, and got one right to his head early on.  Made a hell of a pretty picture.  When I remember him now, it’s always just like that, his face all red."

 

Seth’s face is still unreadable.  “How’d he come back from that?"

 

“Got his hands on one of the spikes, went straight for my junk.  Listen, I got a lotta pride about the kind of pain I can take, but sharp metal to the nuts is somethin’ else.  Gotta hand it to him for that one.”  He chuckles.  “Good times.”

 

The bathroom door clicks, and Roman saunters out in sweatpants, towelling down his ridiculous mess of hair.  “You’ve got a pretty messed up idea of good times, man.”

 

“Right, and football’s _so_ much less stupid.”

 

Roman smirks.  “Never said that.  You gotta be a glutton for punishment, either way.”

 

Seth shakes his head.  “You’re a coupla masochists.  You guys gotta aim higher.  When you’re the best, nobody can touch you."  He looks from Dean to Roman and back, suddenly alert and deadly serious.  “Nobody can touch _us.”_  


“That’s bullshit,” scoffs Dean.  “When you’re the best, that means the whole world’s at your heels.  Doesn’t matter how good you are, nobody runs from those odds forever.”

 

Seth considers, and shrugs.  “If you believe that, what’s even the point?”

 

“That _is_  the point.  That’s the fun.  You don’t get into fighting so you don’t gotta fight.  Not fighting is easy.  Plenty of folks do it every day.  You get one over on some guy who can’t get in a hit against you, what’re you even doing?”

 

“Winning,” says Seth.  “Obviously."

 

“Standing on top of a pile of losers just makes you the top loser.  You ain’t worth shit ’til your competition is.  Think anybody’d care about us if we’d marched in and started kicking the living hell out of the undercard?  Fuck.”

 

“A blowout’s a good time every once in a while,” adds Roman, “too much and your ego’s gonna outgrow your skill.  Iron sharpens iron.”

 

Seth smiles, but who knows if it’s agreement.  “That’s why we’re the best.  All iron.  Nobody gonna be sharper than the three of us.”

 

“Hey,  I’m here to win.  The chase don’t mean anything without the win, but the win’s nothin’ without the chase, y’know?”

 

_And_ , Dean doesn’t say, _three guys don’t climb to the top.  It’s not the top ’til you’ve climbed over the other two._  


 

_One day we’re gonna find the sharpest iron._

 

He doesn’t say a lot of things; Seth’s lost interest in the argument and is heading for his turn in the shower, and Roman’s already channel surfing.  This whole outfit’s a time bomb, and he knows it.  Maybe if he’s lucky Seth’s as stubbornly certain as he’s asking.  If he’s _real_ lucky then whatever goes down will go down before Roman reaps the promise written in his genes.  

 

’Til then, somebody’s gotta be the brains of the operation.  Let Seth keep thinking he’s the clever one.  This story only goes one way, and if there’s gonna be a knife in the back sooner or later, Dean’s gonna have to keep awful, awful sharp.

 

* * *

 

_June 2016_

It’s all gone wrong so many times, his dreams inches from his fingers and miles away, and even now his elation is dampened by a shroud of disbelief.

 

This time, just this once, he called his shot correctly and the Money in the Bank briefcase sits grasped in his aching, sweaty hands.  There’s a part of Dean that’s always been sure he’d get what he deserved - it was _what,_ exactly, he deserved that was always in question.  Even now, he’s waiting for the punchline.  The guy at the top of the pile doesn’t need to be _nice_ , that’s been proven time and time again, but-

 

No.

 

He can have this.

 

He can have this.

 

Dean feels Sami’s presence more than hears him, his politely cleared throat barely audible over the packed arena.  He’s probably just spotted the man’s awkward, shifting feet out of the corner of his eye. He likes to think, instead, he’s somehow noticed the aura of gentle uncertainty that follows Sami like a cloud.

 

Sami’s in rough shape, but hell, so is Dean, so are all of them.  “Yeah?”  Dean’s throat is raw.  Was he screaming earlier?

 

“I just wanted to tell you, uh… I don’t like it when they say that winning’s about who wants it more; none of us would’ve come this far if we didn’t want it, right?  But this time… I think you really did want it more than the rest of us, huh?”

 

It’s a sort of peace offering, Dean thinks.  He softens, his shoulders releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.    “Thanks, Zayn.  You’re a good guy.  You’ll get yours some day."

 

“So they tell me.”  A mirthless smile looks so wrong on Sami’s face.  “Some day."

 

“What, don’t tell me you’ve just come over here to be a sore loser?”

 

Sami chuckles.  “No, you won this one fair and square, but c’mon. I don’t have to tell you of all people what it’s like to keep on getting close and just… falling short.”

 

Dean raises an eyebrow, and taps two fingers against the briefcase.  “And I don’t gotta tell _you_  that sooner or later, fortunes turn, y’know?”  

 

Sami nods, pensive.  He rocks back and forth on his heels, wincing as he rubs his shoulder, letting the pause stretch out.  “So you gonna do it?  What you’ve been saying?  Cash in tonight?"

 

“Well, yeah.  That’s kinda why I’ve been sayin’ it."

 

“Even if it’s Roman?”  

 

“Yeah, even if it’s Roman.  The hell’s that supposed to mean?  Why’s that matter to you?"

 

“Well, this is, uh…”  He flaps a hand noncommittally between them.  “We’re friends, right?  I… I think we’re friends now?"

 

“Yeah, I… guess we are, aren’t we?  I guess that’s what this is.  Still don’t see what that has to do with anything, tho."

 

“Guess I just want to know what kind of friend you are.”  Sami’s gone tense, steeling for a blow, literal or otherwise.  “I don’t have… a great track record, you might’ve noticed."

 

“I’m not Owens.”  Utter certainty.  “I’m not his brand of scumbag.  They can talk all they want about how I got no idea what I’m gonna do next, but I think I’ve been pretty damn clear in my intentions.  Not like I’m a nice guy or anythin'.  Just not a backstabber.  If it’s Roman holding up that title - and don’t get me wrong, I’d sure as shit like to see him put Rollins in his place - he can’t claim he never saw me comin’."

 

“Aren’t you worried, though?  This isn’t like a normal match, one on one, best man wins, and you guys’re best friends, right?  What if this, you know, changes things?  Makes things weird?"

 

Dean sighs.  “Things’ve been weird since he got the belt.  They’ve been… I dunno, different.  He keeps on harpin’ on the whole one versus all thing, like all of a sudden it’s gotta be all him or it doesn’t count for nothin’.  Like he hasn’t had folks with him the whole time - not just me, like, his cousins, his whole goddamn family.  Long as he’s been here, he’s never really been on his own.  Thinks he knows what it’s like, but he doesn’t.  I do.  Always have.  It’s been a while, but that’s not somethin’ you forget.”  He shakes his head.  “Always been waiting for the day when I’d have to teach that dude a lesson.  Maybe he showed me more'n I showed him, I dunno.  We built something, man, even after the Shield.  I thought it meant something.  Now I’m starting to think I gotta burn that bridge to see if it’s worth rebuilding."

 

Sami nods slowly, though Dean’s not sure if it really indicates understanding.  “Titles always mess stuff up.  It’s why we’re here.  But they mess stuff up anyway.”  Of course, who would know better than him.  “You sure it’s worth it?  Really sure?"

 

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing.  If it were back in the day, when you and Kev were still tight, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same to him."

 

“I wouldn’t,” says Sami.  “He would."

 

“Huh.  You think that makes me a bad guy, then?"

 

“No!  No, I’m not saying that, no.  I think…”  Sami’s face tightens with concentration.  “I think.. it makes you wise."

 

Dean laughs, sudden and joyful and sincere, and laughs even harder at Sami’s wide, startled eyes.  “Shit.  Not sure anybody’s called me that before."

 

“First time for everything…?”

 

Dean nods.  “Yeah.  For everything."

 

Before he can turn to go, Sami adds, “Hey, Dean?  Seriously, congrats, man.  You’re a pretty good guy yourself."

 

He opens his mouth to argue, but something about the way Sami says it feels like a holy truth, a benediction.  Unassailable.  Dean reaches out and ruffles a hand through Sami’s short-cropped hair and, though he offers an utterly incredulous look in response, the other man doesn’t stop him.  “Thanks, kid.  You’ll go far here.”

 

The rolling drumbeats of Seth’s intro have begun to echo through the building, and he’s already walking away when Sami calls, “I’m still older than you!”  Dean chuckles and, without turning, waves his goodbye.  “Been wrestling longer, too!”  The voice is almost entirely drowned out, now.  “Like, two years longer!  Dean!”

 

The briefcase feels heavy with the weight of its meaning, catharsis in potentia.  It’s the only thing grounding him, Dean thinks; he feels buoyant, dreamlike.  He grips his prize tighter.  No time to float away, not now.  He’s got bridges to burn.

 

(When the count comes down, and they call his name, and he holds the title in the air - no exceptions, no cheats, no excuses, his and only his - his heart is beating jackrabbit fast and he thinks the roar of the crowd may carry him into the atmosphere after all.  But before - when his music hits, the clear, suspended moment before he makes his run into history - for the first time in two whole years, Dean feels nothing but calm.)

 

* * *

_August 2015_ “Do you ever feel like you wanna crawl out of your skin?” asks Dean from the passenger seat.  He’s slouched down low, knees to the dashboard.  “I mean literally, physically, like… like a snake.  Like your body don’t fit right, but there’s something just under the surface, all wrapped up, and if it could just tear its way out…”  As stuttering streaks of highway light cut through the darkness, Dean catches staccato glimpses of Roman’s face.  His expression says that no, he’s never felt that way, but that’s fine, that’s okay, Dean knew that all along.  He knows that Roman understood that this wan’t a question seeking an answer, either.“That’s how I used to feel all the time,” he continues  "Like, I knew it wasn’t real; I spent enough time getting cut up to get that all I had on the inside was blood and meat, same as anybody, and I still just kept on trying to climb my way out.  Every single time I got gashed open, I’d look down, and there’d be this little shot of disappointment that it was just red again, not something brighter, y’know, different.”  He drums his fingers on his knees, glad that Roman’s eyes are stuck trained on the road ahead.  Dean wilts under sympathy and he knows it, so things tend to come out here, between places, where there’s less chance of a soft gaze resting on him for too long.“I dunno when that went away.  Soon as I noticed I thought hey, maybe I’d just finally got my head right.  But now I look back and there’s a part of me that wonders if I actually managed it, you know?”  He stares down at his splayed hand, large and scarred and nearly grey in the dark.  “Thought I’d be something cleaner, underneath.  But it’ll do."Dean tips his head against the window, the cold glass against the side of his forehead.  When he feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder for a moment, a single gentle squeeze, he doesn’t have to turn back to know that Roman’s smiling.For a while there’s just the wind and the radio and the shuddering road, until: “Sometimes I wish I’d known you back in those days."Dean scoffs.  “No you don’t.  I was a real shithead back then."“You’re still a real shithead,” says Roman with laughter in his voice, and Dean never thought himself capable of an emotion as benign as “fond”, but there it is.  

“I mean it, though.  I’ll still fuck up guys if they cross me, or if it’ll get someone's attention, or if I’m, y’know, real bored.  Back then, though?  I’d do it just to prove nobody could stop me.  Or to prove to myself they could, I dunno.  I hurt people ‘cause I liked it.  Spent a lot of years growing up pretty much powerless, and like, all I knew about power was it meant letting people know you could do whatever you wanted to them and they couldn’t do fuck all about it.  Winning wasn’t just winning, it meant making the other guy a victim so I wasn’t, ‘cause someone had to be.  

 

“I was a bully, okay?  Worse than a bully.  I fought real, real dirty, I hit women, I went after guys who could barely defend themselves, whether the cameras were on or not.  I wanted people to be scared of me.  There’s some shit you don’t forgive.  Best I can say is if you draw a line from there to here, I’m not that guy anymore.”  He hopes Roman can hear the unspoken thanks in that, because admitting out loud that the people around him had helped drag him out of that place meant giving Seth credit too, and, well.  “You would’ve hated me, trust me, way worse than when things got bad in the Shield."

 

“I’ve never hated you,” says Roman.  “You pissed me off sometimes, but hate’s a strong word, man.  I don’t really do hate.”   _Bullshit,_  thinks Dean, because even if Roman didn’t hate _him_ , there's Seth, the Authority, the Wyatts, a whole laundry list of people who've more than earned it.  It _is_ Roman, though.  Perhaps there's some other drive there, something beyond the grasp of one who speaks loathing as a native tongue, and still stammers and slurs his way through this new and softer language.

“Maybe it is a shame we didn’t meet back in the day, then.  Mox coulda taught you a thing or two about yourself."Roman is quiet for a while.  “Is that why you do that sometimes?”  His voice is slow and careful in a way that makes Dean’s skin crawl.  “Talk about yourself, before, in third person.  It’s the only time I ever hear your old name."

 

“Shit, I dunno, maybe.  Never really thought about it.”  It’s true, and a flicker of something - annoyance? fear? - rises within him at the suggestion.  He hadn’t even done it on purpose, this or any other time.  He can feel himself skirting the edge of an answer without quite finding his way to it, but he speaks anyway.  “Nobody really liked me much back then.  Okay, most everybody hated my guts, and I was fine with that, like, I worked at it.  I had a few friends, even a couple pretty good ones, but not-“   _Friends like you.  Family.  Brothers._ “-people who had reason to really stick by me through all the shit I stirred up.  And you wanna talk real hate, well, there were at least a coupla guys who, y’know, I’m not saying we were actually trying to kill each other, we all respected this business if nothing else, I’m just sayin’… if I didn’t get up, they’d be more likely to buy a round than pour one out, you know?

“But I got the last laugh.  I told ‘em all I was the best, and it turned out I was right, ‘cause I did what all of those assholes failed at, over and over.”  Dean cackles, his face a shameless mask of Cheshire mischief.  “I _destroyed_ Jon Moxley.  I made him go away for good.  Not one of ‘em could do that.  That was _me_.”  Roman glances sideways and nods, like Dean’s actually answered his question, and who knows, maybe he has.“I’m still… haunted, I guess.  But Mox is gone, y’know?  I’m just the man who carries his ghost, and tries to be better."

 

There’s no response, and it’s the best response Dean could ask for.  The quiet is comfortable, and he closes his eyes, breathing deep and sure to the rhythm of the road.

 

* * *

 

_June 2011_

 

What the fuck kind of name is “Dean Ambrose” anyway?  Mox is used to carrying the load of things that don’t fit, but this stranger’s name weighs heavier than his bones.  “Ambrose,” he tells the mirror.  “Dean Ambrose.”  The bulb above his bathroom sink flickers, and he tilts his head forward letting shadow form dark pits over his eyes.  “Dean.  Ambrose.”  The words drip like blood from his mouth.  No, not blood, there’s nothing more familiar than blood.  He gags on each syllable, just about vomits them out.  It’s an immune response, his body’s attempt to expel a foreign invader.

Two months in Florida, and he’s still living out of a suitcase, shelling out cash by the week for a cockroach-infested hole in the wall.  And yeah, he’s lived worse places, but he’s been a nomad so long he worries roots might strangle him.  It’s too good a gig, though.  Real money, more than he’s had in his life if he’s being honest, just to train with guys he grew up watching and fight a match here and there.  It’s not like he really believes he’ll make it up to the big leagues - sooner or later, someone’s gonna see through to who they’ve really got on their hands; it’s not like he’s making a secret of it.  But maybe he can learn some new tricks, maybe put some money away for once instead of dumping it all on pills and blow like he did in Puerto Rico, the last time he had anything close to steady.

All they want in exchange is his name, and that’s a goddamn devil’s bargain if he’s ever seen one, because what else does he have that’s worth anything?  There’s not a lot of lines that Jon Moxley won’t cross.  Unfortunately, telling _Dusty Rhodes_ of all people to fuck off with this stupid idea is one of them, so now he’s gotta go out there calling himself Dean Ambrose, whoever the fuck that’s supposed to be.

 

Not like there’s much of an audience.  He’s seen rings set up at flea markets with better attendance than the average FCW show, and he doubts there’s more than a few dozen people paying attention to local access television.  It’s possible there’ll be fans passing it around online - he’s not the only indie name down here, and hey, maybe there’re a few folks out there who'll want to keep track of what ol’ Moxley’s up to.

 

Except he’s not Moxley.  He’s Dean Ambrose.

 

Jon Moxley is his own greatest work, a self-made monster.  Dean Ambrose is a cypher, an outline, an unwritten prologue.  Dean Ambrose is nobody, not yet.  Maybe there’s still only one story he knows how to tell, but he won’t know until he starts telling it.

 

Jon's got no future here.  Dean, who knows.  Maybe he’s still got a chance.

 

Maybe that’s what he’s scared of.

Mox scans his own face with narrowed eyes, carefully, like he’s scoping out his next opponent.  Places a finger hard against the mirror and drags a greasy streak along the curve of his own jawline, and for such a self-obsessed guy, he finds the sight of himself weirdly unfamiliar. “Dean Ambrose, huh.”  He’s struck by an insane impulse to reach out into the mirror-world and shake his own hand, clap himself on the shoulder in greeting.  “Who’re you gonna be, then?”  The dying bulb above him finally blinks out.  Bathed in a sliver of gold shining through the crack in the bathroom door, Dean gently raps his knuckles against the mirror, flicks the useless switch, and goes to unpack. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a fast writer - I've been working on this since FEBRUARY, adding bits as time went on and as I watched more early Shield stuff. I've rearranged the whole mess a dozen times and removed whole nearly-finished sections because they just didn't fit. Now I've got this thing, a big ol' mess of feelings.


End file.
